


whispered and meant

by Anonymous



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Best Friends to Lovers, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, M/M, a scene of homophobia, doesnt last long though - Freeform, harry and louis being baby for 8k words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29353980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Louis isn’t bothered, just smiles widely at him before holding out his pinkie finger. “Pinkie-swear that we’re always best-friends.” Louis is earnest, hair messy and damp from the rain.Harry isn’t sure what a pinkie-swear is, but he locks his little finger around Louis's anyway, and in his heart, he knows that it means something to him.or, Harry grows up in a small town, and Louis Tomlinson is the human reincarnation of the sun.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39
Collections: Anonymous





	whispered and meant

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is based off one i already wrote (in a different fandom) so please don't claim i copied from another author. i just didn't want this tied to my account as it's so similar.
> 
> enjoy though!

Harry is ten years old and calmly reading a book about greek mythology in the first-aid room of his school when somebody bursts through the doors and comes to a halt in the middle of the room. Harry looks up in surprise but doesn’t say anything.

“Hello,” says the child, wearing a football kit which is covered in mud. “Where’s the first-aider?” 

Harry blinks at him, before looking back down at his book. “She went for her lunch break. I will only go and get her if it’s serious,” he replies shortly, turning the page. He’s far more interested in his book anyway, and eager to find out more about the different gods and goddesses over the page, but the child doesn’t leave the room and instead continues to stand there.

“This boy on my team got tackled and he’s, like, scraped his knees,” the kid says excitedly. “Like, there’s blood and stuff.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Lots and lots of blood?”

“Some.”

It’s not worth Harry going to fetch the first-aid teacher for a grazed knee, but the injured child probably needs to have his wound cleaned and to wear gauze to stop an infection, so Harry sighs and closes his book. He stands from the desk and reaches up to a shelf where the infamous green first-aid box is placed.

He hands it over to the dirty-looking kid. “There you go,” he says, sitting back down. He’s fully ready to re-open his book and finish reading this chapter. He can’t deal with any distractions right now.

“I can’t do first-aid,” the kid says. “Only adults can.”

“What about the football teacher?” Harry asks, already wanting this annoying child to go away and leave him to be by himself. “Can he do it?”

“We were playing on our own because the football teacher went home.”

Harry sighs and gets up. “Okay, I’ll do it.” He shuts the large book on the table with a resounding thud before grabbing the first-aid box and slinging it under one arm.

The kid looks surprised. “I thought only grown-ups could do first aid.” And Harry knows that it’s rude to tell somebody to shut up, but he says it very loudly inside his mind and hopes that the boy hears his thoughts. 

“I read books about it,” Harry says as they leave the room together and head towards the football pitch outside. “It’s very simple.” 

“Can you tell me about it?”

Harry blinks at him. “I’ll just let you borrow the book, but you have to give it back because I spent all my pocket money on it.”

When they reach the football field, there’s a crowd of people in the middle of the grass, circling around the centre line. When they walk close, the kid shouts triumphantly from beside him, “First-aid is here!” And points at Harry dramatically.

At the shout, the group of kids turn around to face him and Harry’s face burns in embarrassment. He hates being looked at, especially by the cool football kids who jostle him in the corridors. A few of the kids laugh but Harry tries his very hardest to ignore them and pushes through the crowd into the centre. There’s a kid on the ground, limbs covered in mud, dirty tear-tracks on his cheeks and knees dripping with blood.

“Oh,” Harry says, unsure of how to socially approach this situation. “Who are you?”

The latter sniffles and looks at him, wet-eyes surrounding a vivid shade of blue. “Louis,” he says. “Who are  _ you  _ ?”

“Harry,” Harry says. “What happened to you?” He kneels down on the muddy ground, and his smart black school trousers are probably ruined by now, but he promised himself that he would be good for the first-aider until she got back. And helping somebody else is a very good thing to do.

“I got slide-tackled and then…and then, I fell onto the grass and these other people tripped over me and then I grazed my knees, and it wasn’t as bad at first, but now it hurts a lot and the blood is making me feel like I’m spinning,” Louis rambles, pointing at the offending knees. “It was an accident though, and it was just because I was in the way of the ball, not because I actually did something wrong.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, too bewildered at how much this kid talks.

“My mum says I am very accident prone,” Louis adds. “I always hurt myself.”

Harry opens up the first aid kit and rips open one of those little disposable flannels that is used to clean blood and dirt from an open wound. He shuffles forwards in the muddy grass and presses the flannel against Louis’s dirt and blood-covered knee. 

“That hurts,” Louis says, visibly tearing up again. 

“It’s meant to hurt,” Harry sighs. “It means it is getting better.” He finishes cleaning one knee and begins on the other one. The crowd surrounding Louis has mostly dispersed to play another game, leaving just Louis and Harry sitting in the middle of the football field. 

“Are you allowed to do first-aid?” Louis asks, stretching out his legs.

Harry shrugs, pushes hair away from his face. “I don’t know. But I know what I’m doing.”

And then once he’s cleaned the wound, Harry applies a gauze to the knee with the deep, painful looking cut. “You will have a scar there,” he says simply. “You should keep the bandage on for a few hours.”

“You’re smart,” Louis says. “You must be the cleverest person here.” And the kid is so honest that Harry burns red like a tomato. He’s never been complimented like that before.

“Really?” Harry asks. “There is probably somebody who is more smart than me.”

“No, it’s you,” Louis says.

And Harry doesn't forget that.

Two days later, Harry is sitting in the first-aid room again, but this time he’s reading a book about sports cars. He enjoys brushing his fingers against the page and imagining himself owning an expensive car that he drives around the city. He would probably own a Ferrari, but then again, a Lamborghini would be pretty cool too. Especially if it was a black one.

But then there’s the familiar sound of feet running past the room as they normally do during break-time, but this time they halt in the doorway. It distracts Harry from his reading, and he looks up to see who’s disturbing him. 

Louis grins at him from the hallway, and he’s the kid from the other day on the football pitch, except he’s no longer covered in blood and dirt, and is sporting two wonky plasters on both of his knees. “Hi Harry!” He says excitedly. “I didn’t know you hung out here.”

“Yes, I come here every day to be on my own,” Harry says. “I don’t like the noise in the hall.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “Why not? It’s fun!”

Harry shrugs. “How are your knees?” He says, rather proud of himself for changing the subject so well.

Louis laughs, a radiant smile spreading across his face. “It’s better now,” he points down at the injury. “Do you like the plasters? They have footballs on them.” Then he looks back up at Harry for some sort of confirmation, cheeks ruddy pink.

“I don’t like football,” Harry says simply.

Louis’s face falls. “You don’t like them? I was looking for you because I thought you would like to see them.” The excitement has gone from his eyes, and Harry feels a little bad.

“They…they look nice on you,” Harry hastily adds. “They…they match your shirt which is green.” He feels embarrassed after saying it, because he finds giving and receiving compliments a difficult task.

Louis gasps excitedly, a huge smile stretching across his face. “Yes, they match! You’re right,” he says. “Louso, can I ask you something?”

Harry shuffles awkwardly. “What is it?”

“Do you want to come and watch me play football?” Louis asks, looking at his feet nervously. “Maybe you will like it more after you see me play!”

Harry wants to say no because he can’t think of anything worse than hanging around in the cold watching a scrawny kid run after a glorified piece of inner-tube. But Louis is eager and looking at him with blue, expectant eyes. So Harry mumbles out an ‘okay’ and allows himself to be dragged out of the first-aid room by Louis, sports-car book abandoned on the table.

Louis Elmslie is Harry’s first friend.

*

From that day on, they’re close friends. Every day of school, Harry sits on the bench beside the football field and watches as Louis chases after a ball, watches as Louis gets accidentally knocked into by one of the bigger boys. Watches as Louis scores a goal and runs around the field in victory. Because Louis might be smaller than the other kids, but he definitely knows how to score a goal.

And after he finishes football every day, Louis always runs over to him joyfully and explains every single technicality of the game while Harry listens intently. And after that, they go to the library and sit opposite each other at the tiny wooden tables while Harry avidly describes everything to Louis from whichever book he’s reading at the time.

Maybe they’re best-friends, but Harry hasn’t had one before, so he doesn’t know what counts as one. He hopes they end up as best-friends though, because although he might not admit it out loud, spending time with Louis is the most fun he’s ever had in his life.

Today, three months after they met on the football field, is no different. Louis is covered in mud again as he walks off the pitch, grinning with gappy teeth as he breaks into a jog to make his way over towards him. “Did you see how far I kicked that ball?” Louis says. “It nearly went into a hedge but Connor stopped it just in time. And then I scored a goal, Harry!”

Harry grins at him, happy because Louis is happy. “I saw it,” he says as they begin to walk back across the field towards where the library is. “It was so  _ cool,  _ Lou.”

“I swear it went as tall as a skyscraper,” Louis breathes, taking a swig from his water bottle.

“That’s impossible,” Harry says matter-of-factly. “But it still went really high.”

They both head to the library like normal and find their normal table in the corner of the library, hidden by two bookshelves. Harry likes spending time with Louis here, because they’re hidden from the rest of the room and can’t be found by the annoying teachers or the popular football boys. 

They read a book about superheroes together, and gape at the beautiful drawings and stylised photos of each character. They give each other superhero names and giggle at the funny words in the book, while the entire time Harry can’t quite believe that Louis is listening to him, and still can't quite believe that Louis is even his friend. 

“I’m glad you’re my friend, Lou,” Harry blurts out suddenly, and he doesn’t know why he’s said it because Louis must think he’s such a loser for being so sentimental.

but Louis looks up at him, cheeks still pink from the cold and the tip of his nose red at the end. He smiles at Harry, eyes crinkling. “I’m glad you’re  _ my  _ friend!”

“I thought you wouldn’t want to be friends with me,” Harry says. “Because I’m not cool like the football boys.” He fiddles with a page in the book, unable to keep eye contact with his friend.

“Well, you’re more fun than them,” Louis says defiantly. “I like you best anyway.” 

Harry goes red, absolutely flattered at the way Louis is so nice to him.

“In fact, I want you to be my best-friend,” Louis whispers, covering the side of his face so nobody else can hear their conversation. It feels like they're infinite, feels like they can do anything at that moment.

“Really?” Harry asks, gaping at him. “I haven’t ever had a best-friend.”

Louis isn’t bothered, just smiles widely at him before holding out his pinkie finger. “Pinkie-swear that we’re always best-friends.”

Louis is earnest, hair messy and damp from the rain. Harry isn’t sure what a pinkie-swear is, but he locks his little finger around Louis’s anyway, and in his heart, he knows that it means something to him.

*

Harry is thirteen and in secondary school when he first realises that Louis isn’t just his best mate, but the centre of his entire universe. Louis is like the sun, and Harry and everybody else are just little planets that orbit around him. He’s okay with that though, because Louis is confident, loud and chatty. He radiates warmth and comfort whenever they’re together, and he’s made to be seen that way because Louis is practically everything rolled into one human being. He means the world to Harry.

They both gain a few inches, and Louis gains one or two extra. He’s still slim and spindly, arms and legs not that much broader than when he was a kid. He’s grown into his face, however, nose more rosy and upturned, and golden freckles scattered over his nose and cheekbones. Harry is positively in awe of him, because he  _ glows  _ whenever Harry looks at him.

And while Louis has grown upwards, Harry becomes more built. He’s not a skinny kid anymore, he’s got a strong jawline and the beginnings of facial hair ghosting his features, and his voice has  _ dropped.  _ He’s still shy, and prefers the comfort of a quiet room with Louis rather than the busy and bustling atmosphere of the secondary school canteen, but he feels less invisible anymore. 

In fact, the other day, a girl told Harry he was cute when he was walking into school. He’d never had girls talk to him like that before, and he wondered what it meant for him. Was he not as pitiful and lonely as he was made to believe?

He’d excitedly told Louis about the girl the second he sat down next to him in Biology, out of breath because he’d ran to class.

_ “Was she pretty  _ ?”  _ Louis had asked, doodling something at the top of his notebook. He didn't look Harry in the eye once, just continued doodling. _

_ Harry thought about the word ‘pretty’ and what it meant in his mind. Yes, the girl was pretty. She’d got dark brown curls and soft brown skin that reminded Harry of autumn and cold hands wrapped around hot mugs of coffee. It was pretty to Harry. But to him, it wasn’t the prettiest. _

_ “Yes, she was quite pretty,” Harry had shrugged and took his pencil case and notebook out of his bag, aligning them neatly on the table.  _

_ “Ask her out then,” Louis had said, and there was a curtness to his voice that felt like he wanted to end the conversation. So Harry did. _

Harry doesn’t ask out the girl, because he’s too scared. She’s one of the popular girls who could easily make fun of him if he says something wrong, or does something embarrassing. So Harry keeps to himself and just smiles at her every now and then in the hallway instead. 

“Did you not ask her out?” Louis frowns one day, while they’re taking their school books out of their lockers. 

Harry shakes his head and fumbles with the lock. “No, I don’t like her enough.”

Louis seems pleased with this, pink painting the apples of his cheeks. “That’s very wise of you, Harry..”

Harry learns that Louis doesn’t really care about girls. Harry doesn’t know why, because every boy in his class seems to be interested in girls. In every class they attend, there are about three different couples, and it’s the only gossip they ever hear about, so Harry feels like he must partake in it if he wants to be liked. But Louis is blissful in his girl-less state, and whenever Harry asks him about a girl he just shrugs and carries on with what he’s doing. 

But one day it’s different. 

Louis looks up at him from the picture he’s drawing. “She’s okay, yeah,” he murmurs in response to a photo of a girl that Harry shows him. But he turns back to his drawing, pressing so hard with the red crayon that it leaves an indent in the paper.

“Only  _ okay  _ ?” Harry questions, surprised. “She’s like,  _ so  _ cool.”

And then Louis looks up at him, eyes blue as the sky in the centre of his vision. The same blue eyes that told him they were best-friends forever, years ago. “Do we have to _always_ talk about girls?” He asks, frustration eating at his features. “It’s boring.”

Harry is hurt, because Louis has never slandered his interests before. He’d always listen intently to everything Harry says, even when it was about something Louis hated, like  _ The Romans.  _ “I’m sorry,” Harry says quietly. “Do you not like girls?”

“No,” Louis says sharply, scribbling against the page with a purple colour. 

“Oh, do you like boys then?” Harry laughs, and he’s obviously joking, but Louis freezes, body rigid like he’s been shot. Louis' hand, which was previously busy against the paper, has frozen too, crayon lump between his fingers. 

There’s a silence, and Harry doesn’t know what it means. He wishes that Louis wouldn’t confuse him, because it makes him feel like he’s done something wrong.

“I don’t like anybody,” Louis says finally, scribbling against the paper again.

“Not even me?” Harry says. And Louis laughs at that, shaking his head. 

“You’re my best-friend, stupid,” Louis says, and pokes his finger on the back of Harry’s hand. Harry thinks about that single movement all night, but can’t, for the life of him, think why.

*

By the time Harry is sixteen (and Louis is almost sixteen), they’ve almost fully grown into their faces. Their heights have shot up again, but yet again they remain one of the shortest in their classes. 

Louis’s voice finally drops, but he’s still slim with bony knees and a more pronounced jawline. They’re pretty much the same height, but Harry dwarfs him in every other sense. He starts working out at the gym down the road, starts eating healthier until his face becomes more chiselled. He even lets his facial hair grow out a little bit, even though Louis jokes with him about it, calls him  _ Mister Beard.  _ It’s hardly a beard, Harry thinks. It’s just  _ stubble  _ . 

Louis, however, experiments with his style. He begins to wear a lot of pink clothing to school, and lets his hair grow so it falls over his face in a messy fringe that he has to keep pushing out of his eyes whenever he focuses on something in class. He begins to cart an old skateboard around school with him, tucked under his arm like a school-bag. It makes Harry happy to see that Louis is growing into himself and seeming happier. Harry thinks he looks pretty when Louis wears clothes that he actually likes.

And regardless of what his interests are, Louis is still the sun and the centre of everything like always. 

Harry doesn’t have as many classes with Louis now, because of their upcoming exams. Louis chooses to study PE and Business, while Harry picks Art and Music. It doesn't mean they don’t see each other, it just feels strange not having Louis by his side in every class. 

Harry is forced to socialise with other people in his art and music classes, but they probably prefer the other students to him because they actually speak up and don’t go bright red in the face whenever a question is asked their way. Every class, Harry just finds himself checking the time on his watch until the lesson ends, and then he sprints outside of school and runs down towards the sports hall to wait for Louis to finish his classes.

“How was painting?” Louis asks him after classes finish, hair wet against his face from the shower he's probably had after PE. He looks nice like that, Harry thinks, but brushes the thought away.

“It was okay,” Harry says. “How was PE?”

Louis grins at him. “It was good. I teamed up with this boy called Archie, and we almost won, but then someone else cut in front of us and tripped us up.”

Harry had missed it when Louis ranted to him, because there was nothing he adored more than the sound of Louis’s voice when he’s excited. He’d flap his arms about and dramatically reenact every scenario that he could think of. 

“That sounds great,” Harry smiles at him in the way he always does, permanently in a state of endearment for everything that Louis says.

“I like him a lot,” Louis admits. “He skateboards like me, but he’s a lot better, so he’s going to teach me.”

Harry feels something strange twist inside of his gut, but he assumes it’s just pride for Louis. “Oh,” he says. “Are you going to hang out with him today?”

Louis looks at him. “Yeah, we’re going to the skate-park.”

Harry feels a bit left out. He wishes he was good at sports so Louis would like him more. “That’s cool,” he murmurs, and tries his hardest to sound enthusiastic, but he’s not the best at replicating emotions he isn’t feeling. He hopes that Louis doesn’t catch on.

“You should come,” Louis adds. “I could try teaching you how to skate again, but on a real ramp this time.” He looks excited at this, eyes wide and enthusiastic.

“But Archie is teaching  _ you,”  _ Harry says, knowing how disgustingly jealous he sounds. “You don’t need me there, don’t worry, Lou.”

Louis punches him good-naturedly. “Of course I need you there. You’re my best-friend.”

And the look in Louis' eye is so earnest and painfully honest that Harry can’t bear the thought of even letting him down. So he mumbles out a ‘fine’, and Louis’s grin widens.

They head to the skate-park that evening, and the sky’s a pinkish-orange that casts a warm light over their neighbourhood and the contours of Louis’s face. He’s pretty every day, but this evening Harry can hardly take his eyes off him, for he’s the centre of everything, clad in light-washed blue jeans that he’s cuffed at the bottom, and a pink shirt that dwarfs his small frame.

“I like your shirt,” Harry states simply, hopes it’s enough.

Louis turns to him from where he’s walking beside him, shoots him a warm smile. “I like you.”

Harry doesn't know what Louis was supposed to mean by that, but something twists in his gut.

“I think red is your colour,” Louis adds, and smooths the fabric on his shoulder with a concentrated eye.

When they finally arrive at the skate-park, it’s busy and Harry can feel his heart rise up into his throat as he’s accidentally bumped into by skaters and pushed past by impatient shoulders. He grips Louis’s old skateboard tigh under his arm. There are too many people here and Harry hates it, although Louis seems to notice his discomfort and looks down to gently lace their fingers together. 

Harry looks down at their interlaced fingers before looking back up at Louis. “I’m okay.”

Louis nods. “We don’t have to stay here,” he says kindly. “There’s no room to skate anyways.”

He’s not going to ruin Louis’s fun with his new friend, Archie. He’s been looking forward to it all day, and has spent a long time telling Harry about how much he likes him. “It’s fine, the crowd will leave soon.”

Louis grins at him, runs a hand through his overgrown fringe, before noticing Archie standing at the top of one of the ramps, gives him a little wave. “Are you okay if I go talk to him?” He says, still holding his hand loosely.

Harry nods. “Have fun,” he says, voice tight, but Louis has already unlaced their fingers, skipping off towards the ramp, brand-new pink skateboard gripped tightly in his hand. He watches as he scales the ramp to reach Archie, stands up beside him. Archie greets him warmly, squeezes his shoulder before appearing to compliment his skateboard. 

So Harry just busies himself on the smaller ramps, tries to keep his balance as he rides but every time he tries, he manages to scrape and bruise another part of his body. So eventually Harry finds himself sitting at the edge of the skate-park on the grass, fiddling with the wheels on Louis’s old skateboard. Every time Harry turns to look at Louis, he’s laughing like a hyena at something Archie’s said, or he’s doing some trick on his board that makes Harry smile. Every time he does something he’s proud of, he turns to Harry and gives him a mini thumbs-up, before he’s turning back to whatever Archie is saying.

Well, at least Louis isn’t completely ignoring him, Harry thinks. 

But then moments later, when Harry has focused back down on the wheels of his skateboard, he hears the sound of a commotion from the other end of the park. Harry’s head snaps to the direction of the sound, and then  _ oh, fuck.  _ Louis is on the ground, cradling his arm to his stomach. 

Harry doesn’t think he’s moved so fast in his life, because one minute he’s cross-legged on the grass and the next he’s kneeling next to Louis on the concrete.

“Louis?” He says worriedly, ghosts his fingers against his arm, a reassuring action. “What happened?” There’s a group of skater boys watching them from afar, and Harry feels uncomfortable by their presence, but Louis is his priority right now so he tries to ignore them.

Louis meets his gaze, crystalline eyes wide as saucers. “Landed awkwardly,” he says, trying to come off as fine in front of the other skaters, but Harry knows he’s in a lot of pain. Archie approaches them on his skateboard before skidding to a halt neatly and stepping off.

“You good, Lou?” he asks nicely enough, but looks at Harry when he says it, something strangely menacing in his eyes. 

Louis nods. “Yeah. I’m okay.”  _ He’s not. He’s lying.  _ Louis’s teeth are gritted together and he’s digging his nails so hard into his hand that he leaves little crescent-moon shaped marks in the skin.

“Get up, then,” Archie says. “You gonna try that trick again?”

Louis nods meekly, gets up from where he was curled up on the floor. He winces in pain as he retrieves his board from where it must’ve stopped rolling. Harry doesn’t like seeing him like this, hates seeing him in pain.

“It’s all part of the process,” Archie says. “Everyone falls over when they start out.”

Louis nods. “It still hurts,” he says, practically short of breath. “I don’t think I should risk hurting it again.”

Archie rolls his eyes at this, kicks his own board up and back down impatiently. “Don’t be stupid,” he says. “You’re clearly fine.”

Louis just nods, defeat written all over his face. Harry wants to speak up, wants to tell Archie to  _ fuck off  _ for talking so rudely to his best-friend, but Archie is taller than him, bigger than him. Could easily knock him out in one punch, so Harry tries to remain polite.

“I think he’s…” Harry starts, lump in his throat. “I think he’s actually injured.” Harry watches as Louis sits back down on the ground again, cradling his arm against his chest. 

Archie laughs in his face, turns to the other skaters and they all laugh too. Harry’s face  _ burns.  _ “He’s fine,” Archie bites out sharply, towering over him. “Welcome to the real fucking world. People get injured when they skate, just like your little boyfriend here.”

Harry grits his teeth. “He’s… he’s not my boyfriend,” he tries to say calmly, and doesn’t look Louis in the eye when he says it. “He’s my best-friend.”

“Well, he likes boys, doesn't he?” Archie laughs coldly, and Harry balls his fists at his sides in anger. “You and him make a right good match.” 

“He’s not like that,” Harry defends, heat rising to his throat. His voice feels strangled and thick in his neck. “Leave Louis alone.” Harry notices that the rest of the skate-park has gone uncomfortably silent, everybody craning their necks to see whatever drama is unfolding.

Archie kicks up his skateboard and slings it under his arm. “You’re a fucking weirdo. You probably like boys too.” And then with that, Archie rolls his eyes at them and walks away, all of the other skaters following in his wake, as if he’s a celebrity. Harry is still vibrating with anger as the group of kids leave the skate-park, his breath too loud and a high pitched noise ringing in his ears.

“Louis, I’m sorry,” Harry babbles the second they're alone in the skate-park, falling onto his knees beside him. “That was all my fault.” He’s panicking, because he can’t lose Louis’s friendship, especially after six years. He wouldn’t know what to do without him. 

But Louis isn’t angry, which is surprising because Harry has definitely fucked up a friendship for him. He looks up at Harry with big blue eyes, eyelashes long and dark. “You stood up for me,” he says softly.

Harry frowns. “Well, he was being a dick and spreading lies about you, so I wasn’t going to let him just  _ get away with it  _ ,” he explains. 

Louis doesn’t say anything for a long time, doesn’t even look him in the eye like he normally does when he speaks to him. He just looks silently at the mark his skateboard made on the concrete when he fell, still gripping his injured arm with the other.

“Louis?” Harry asks gently, worried he’s done something to offend him.

“I need to tell you…” Louis murmurs, jaw tight. He spins one of the dirtied pink wheels of his skateboard. 

Harry is confused, because Louis tells him  _ everything  _ , from what he had for breakfast, to his favourite comic, to his opinion on whether their schoolteachers Mrs. Goldsmith and Mr. Jacobs are secretly dating, to, when Harry stays over, whispered confessions at 1am about his parents’ divorce. 

“What do you mean?” Harry questions, hair blowing in his face from the evening wind. The sky’s still pink like the tip of Louis’s nose, and there’s something poignant about it, but Harry can’t put a name to anything in his mind.

“Archie’s right about all that, you know,” Louis mumbles, bottom lip quivering slightly. Then he looks up at Harry, eyes shining with tears. 

“What do you mean? Why are you crying?” Harry asks in alarm, hand reaching out instinctively to Louis’s non-injured shoulder like he normally does, but instead pulls Louis towards him further so that the younger of the two is pressing his tear-stained face into Harry’s shirt.

“Harry,” Louis tries. And it’s alarming seeing him like this, because Harry, more than anything, wants him to be okay. He wants to see Louis happy, because there’s nothing that makes his heart race more than when Louis tips his head back and laughs, exposing the canine teeth that look like little fangs. Friends are supposed to feel like that about each other, right?

“Take your time,” Harry says, and reaches out to stroke his hand against Louis’s hair. There’s something about the way Louis’s hair feels against his skin that makes Harry itch to hold him closer, wants to lace their fingers together again, just to see what it feels like to be infinite with Louis.

“No, I…” Louis says, sniffling. “I’m gay, Harry.”

And  _ oh.  _ In milliseconds, memories flicker back in his mind, moments where he couldn’t understand why Louis wouldn’t talk about girls with him, moments where Louis would freeze up when the mean kids at school would call him names. Moments where Louis talked about a boy and blushed a little. And Harry would always be so confused and would ask him about it, but Louis would brush it off like it was nothing. Now he knew why.

“Lou, it’s not…” Harry starts, but then Louis is sitting up, hair mussed and eyes red from where he was practically lying in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” Louis blurts out. “I shouldn’t have…I know this makes things weird now. I should probably go home.”

Harry’s eyebrows slant downwards. This can’t happen. “No, please!” He says as Louis begins to get up, wincing as he clings onto his injured arm. “I was…I was going to say that it’s not a big deal to me.”

Louis turns around, evening wind blowing through his hair as he looks at Harry scrambling up from the concrete. Harry thinks he’s really pretty. Possibly the prettiest person in the world. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly. “It could never be weird between us. Unless you were like, a murderer or something.”

And then Louis laughs a watery tear-glazed laugh, but he tips his head back and shows his teeth, and there’s nothing that Harry loves more than when he laughs like that.

“Can I see your arm then?” Harry says. “It looks painful.”

So they both sit opposite each other at the top of the skateboard-ramp, and Louis holds out the offending limb, just like when they were smothered in mud on the football field as ten-year-olds. 

_ Déjà-vu. _

“Remember when you used to know first-aid,” Louis says, grinning at him. “I remember thinking that you were the coolest person in the world.”

Harry goes a bit red at this, but continues to examine his arm. “I was a weird kid,” he mutters, pressing his thumbs against Louis’s forearm to see if there’s any bruises. Louis winces at the sensation. “Wish I still knew all of the stuff.”

“I still have the scar on my knee,” Louis announces, and before Harry knows it, Louis pulls up the leg of his jeans to expose the scar, just the same as he remembered it. “I think about it every now and then.”

Harry feels something in his heart when Louis runs his finger over the six-year-old scar and then looks up at him, his entire world shining through crystalline, cornflower-blue eyes. Something shoots through Harry’s mind, a sudden impulse to lean forward and catch Louis’s lips with his own, a desire to feel Louis clambering onto his lap. 

And  _ what the fuck?  _ Louis is just his friend, right? Nothing more and nothing less. He’s just his best-friend, but Harry hasn’t stopped thinking about him since he was ten years old. Harry hasn’t felt the way he does about Louis for anybody else. And Harry might not have had any other friends, but he knows that people who are  _ just  _ friends don’t act like this. Most other people don't think about holding hands with their best-friend and being with them forever. Most other people don't accidentally think about kissing their best-friend.

Then Harry takes himself out of his mind, and when he focuses back, Louis is looking at him with concern.

“You okay?” Louis asks with a frown.

“Yeah,” Harry laughs, not looking Louis in the eye in case he accidentally feels something for him again. “I’m good.”

“My arm feels better now,” Louis says, wiggling it about. “It only hurts a little bit.”

Harry is relieved. “That’s good, because if you’d sprained it then it would be really hard for you to play football.” He knows how much Louis values sports, and how upset he would be if he wasn’t able to play. And anything that causes Louis distress, causes Harry to feel great discomfort too. 

When they leave the skate-park, it’s dark and there’s a biting coldness to the air that makes the hairs on Harry’s arms raise up. Louis walks beside him, pink t-shirt grubby, half untucked, and the knees of his light-washed jeans scuffed. He holds his skateboard under one arm, and the other arm swinging by his side, too close to Harry’s. It would only take a second for him to reach a finger or two and slide their palms together.

“Harry?” Louis blurts out, shoes scuffing against the pavement as they walk together.

“Yeah?” Harry says, catching his eye under the faint glow that the streetlights cast over them.

“I know you said that me being  _ me  _ wouldn’t make anything weird,” Louis says, “but, Harry, if it  _ does  _ freak you out, then I understand if you want to make new friends.” There’s terror in his voice, and Harry suddenly realises how big of a thing this is to Louis, how many sleepless nights he’s probably had thinking about himself. And now is the most important time for him to be there for Louis.

“God, you’re an idiot,” Harry says. “I don’t want new friends.” Louis looks down at the ground at this, and Harry sees a pink flush coat Louis’s cheeks.

“Are you sure?” 

“I need you, Lou,” Harry says. “I would be a totally friendless loser if it wasn’t for you.” And then, in the darkness, Harry reaches out and takes Louis’s hand in his own. There’s something special about them holding hands in the darkness of their neighbourhood, and it’s poignant because nobody can see them. There’s nobody to judge them or shout horrendous names across the street.

“I like it when you hold my hand,” Louis says, and Harry’s heart is racing in his chest, a burning desire to do something that he can’t pinpoint. Something that fulfils the aching gap that stretches over his heart.

Harry doesn’t reply, but he feels like they’re everything at that moment.

*

It’s two years later, so Harry’s eighteen now. His height had shot up after sixteen, and he’d lived to gloat about the fact that he was quite a few inches taller than Louis. Louis would grumble with his arms folded over his chest, muttering about how Harry would never be able to beat him in a fight anyway.

But at thirty seconds past midnight, Harry is at the bottom of the stairs, pressed up against the wall, dialling numbers hurriedly on the shared landline phone. It rings for a long time, and Harry is terrified that it’ll go to voicemail. He’s terrified that Louis won’t care anymore, scared that he has better things to do and other people to see, now that Harry is away.

But then it picks up, there’s a shuffling and a muffled  _ ‘Hello?’  _ . Harry practically jumps for joy, because it’s  _ him  _ . It's Louis, voice the same in his ear like always.

“Happy birthday,” Harry whispers, anxious that he’s going to wake up everybody else in the house. 

And Harry hasn’t ever rung him from this number before, so there's no reason why Louis would even know who was ringing him. But still, Louis inhales a sharp breath through the phone. 

“ _ Harry _ ?”

“How do you know it’s me?” Harry questions, sliding down the wall so he’s sitting on the grubby carpet with his knees up against his chest and the telephone in one hand. 

“ _ I recognised your voice,”  _ Louis says hastily.  _ “But…why haven’t you called me before? I missed you, and–"  _

Harry feels a horrible sense of guilt rise into his throat. He must’ve looked like a dickhead. “I’m sorry, I only just moved into the uni flat,” he explains. “We didn’t get the phone line up and running until today.”

Louis exhales into the phone. “ _ I thought you were ignoring me _ .”

“No, no, I would never.” Harry says, panicked at the fact that Louis thought that. “But, tell me how you feel now you’re eighteen.”

And Louis goes off onto one of his long explanations, telling him about every emotion he’s felt since Harry has gone, every thought he’s had about being eighteen years old. Harry just listens like he always used to, lets Louis ramble away to him about anything and everything. 

“ _ But how’s uni? _ ” Louis finishes, taking a breath. Harry doesn’t like the silence, the bits in life that Louis doesn’t fill. He hates the moments where Louis isn’t there to finish his sentences, talk his ear off. It feels like something is drastically missing, and Harry hates it.

“Good,” Harry says, looks around at the grubby flat inhabited by cardboard boxes. “Classes don’t start for a few days so I’m gonna spend some time sorting out my stuff.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling Louis this, when in reality he just wants to tell him he’s missing him. “Hopefully won’t be sleeping on a camping bed on the floor for much longer.”

Louis laughs down the phone, the giggly one that makes Harry’s heart race. But somewhere in his head he’s hoping that Louis is doing the laugh where he tips his head back and covers his mouth with his hand. “ _ Well, if you fuck up your back, I’m not knocking it back into place. _ ”

Harry laughs, but suddenly feels a wave of sadness burst through his veins. “I miss you,” he says, voice wavering in his throat.

“ _ When are you coming home? _ ” Louis asks, voice small and gentle. Harry imagines him curled up in front of the phone, knees tucked to his chest and fringe mussed over his eyes. He wishes he could hug him, hold his hand. 

Harry doesn’t know. “In a few weeks,” he estimates. “I’ll come see you, Lou, I swear.”

Louis sniffles down the phone. “ _ Please don't be long. I’m having to hang out with the football team and my coworkers from the café. They’re annoying _ .”

“I promise,” Harry says sincerely. “When I come back, we’ll hang out the entire time.”

“ _ Promise? _ ”

“Yeah,” Harry whispers. “See you soon…Happy birthday.”

And then he ends the call, silence booming in his ear like tinnitus. Harry should probably go to bed.

*

Before Harry takes the train back to university after his break, Louis clings to him like he doesn’t want to let go. They wander the roads of their neighbourhood, visit the skateboard park, stand outside the gates of their old schools. Because their entire childhoods were built there, first friendships, first mistakes.

“Eight years ago,” Louis says, pointing through the fence towards the part of the school grounds where the football pitch used to be located. “Can you believe that?”

“Yeah, eight long years with the most insufferable twat I’ve ever known,” Harry says. “Worst thing I’ve ever experienced.”

Louis punches him in the arm, but it doesn’t hurt because Louis isn’t capable of causing harm to anybody. “Cunt,” he says. “I was being nostalgic.” He looks pretty today, kitted out in a brand new shirt and pink mini shorts that barely cover his thighs. Harry feels corrupt for staring a second too long.

They walk along the road towards the train station, every single minute feeling too short until Harry has to leave. Because he’s torn, he wants him there. Harry wants his degree with Louis by his side, but Louis doesn’t want to go to university, so he has to figure this out himself. He’s going to have to find other friends, but Harry doesn’t know how he’s going to do that.

“Harry,” Louis starts, eyes looking away from him. It feels like everything they’ve ever experienced in one moment but spun backwards, the opposite direction, because while Louis can't meet his gaze, Harry finds himself unable to look anywhere else, because it’s all  _ Louis Louis Louis.  _ He knows he’s stupid to find himself so deep and so far, especially after eight years of friendship, a dynamic that could be ruined if something were to go wrong, if Harry were to confess.

“Mhm?” Harry muses, drags his suitcase along behind him. He doesn’t know how he's going to cope, another few months without Louis. 

“I need to tell you something.”

And it’s serious because he’s looking at Harry the same way he did when he came out to him years ago, eyes big and blue in the centre of his vision, everything else falling away in the background like tunnel vision. And, God, if Harry wasn’t whipped before, he definitely is now.

“You can tell me anything, Lou.”

Louis’s lip shudders as he inhales. “I’ve needed to tell you this for years.”

And maybe Harry has been hiding something for years too, so they’re equals, like sides of a coin. But Harry doesn’t know how to say it with words. “Tell me,” Harry whispers, presses a comforting hand against Louis’s slim shoulder. They’re practically in the middle of the road, by the train station, but it’s a quiet evening and there’s barely any cars or people rushing about.

“You won’t want to be my friend after this,” Louis says. “I just wanted to tell you before you leave again.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just swallows something heavy and painful in his throat. 

“I think…” Louis starts, but then he pauses, before looking Harry straight in the eye. He’s thinking about something; he’s changed his mind. “Uh…I’m just going to miss you, that’s all.” 

Harry blinks. “Louis…” he says, but he has a look in his eye that’s making him doubt everything he previously thought was true.

“No. It’s…” Louis says. “It’s too late.” 

“What?” And Harry can see Louis shaking his head, something behind his eyes that feels like it’s going to end. Harry doesn't want this; he needs Louis to know before he’s back in university and back to his boring part-time day-job where he picks up and puts down the telephone.

“Your train will be here soon,” Louis says, and swallows hard. “I’ll see you—”

Harry panics, because he’s not good with words, and there’s no way he can come to any logical conclusion, no way in hell that he could tell Louis how he feels. “No. Fucking hell, Lou,” he manages, jaw tight in his mouth like it’s been screwed too tight. “You’re so goddamn stupid sometimes.” And then in it all happens at once, because one minute they’re opposite each other in the road, wind messing up their hair like it doesn’t give a shit about them, and the next moment Harry thinks  _ fuck it,  _ leans over rough tarmac and kisses Louis like the world is ending right there. A kiss that Louis clearly wasn’t expecting because he squeaks into Harry’s mouth. And it only takes a few seconds before Louis practically melts into him, the wild surge of Louis’s acceptance the only solidity that he can make out through his dizzying mouth. And when Harry feels Louis’s cold hand slide to the back of his neck, he knows that Louis is kissing him back.

But when Louis breaks away, his cheeks are all pink and so is the tip of his nose, the sprinkling of freckles that dance over his cheekbones and forehead suddenly so much more perfect in Harry’s eyes. It’s always been him, from the moment the crowd parted and Harry could see ten-year-old Louis smeared in mud on the ground, tear-stained face unrivalled even back then. It was Louis when he’d run across the field towards him after football practise, babbling away about the game and the goals he’d scored. And it was even Louis that day at the skate park when he hurt his arm, Harry’s only memory being himself sliding down beside Louis on the concrete to check if he was seriously injured. And the fact that he could hardly remember what those stupid skater kids’ names were was because they were irrelevant back then and they were hardly relevant now.

“Ring me when you get there,” Louis breathes with a smile, cheeks even pinker than before. God, Harry wants to drape pretty flowers in his hair and kiss the life out of him. But then Louis is turning around and in a second that stretches out too far in Harry’s brain, he walks away, rounds the corner and disappears down the road, back to his house. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! <3 please leave kudos and a comment if you can...it would make my day. :)


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